Of Coffee and Throw Pillows
by Invariant
Summary: This is totally a cute little Polivia preggers-fic. Reference to 4x19 in that Peter and Olivia eventually had a little bundle of joy. Rating is for a few choice words. Possibly the start of many lil' vignettes with this premise.


**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I just like to play with 'em.**

**Spoilers: In reference to 4x19 "Letters of Transit"**

**Authors Note: I had twenty minutes before my breakfast date, so I wrote this up. I'm planning to maybe turn this into a series of pregnancy vignettes. The last scene of the episode was SO ADORABLE that I couldn't help myself considering all these bambino fics can now be considered cannon.**

**About the premise: A friend of mine craved coffee all through her pregnancy, and with how much Olivia drinks the swill on any given day, I thought that idea would fit in okay here.**

**Again, to all the readers, thanks for taking the time to skim this about. :) And to my girl Elialys, you're the best honey! ((hugs))**

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These days she can hardly stand it when he stands there like that, with his posture lazy against her armoire, vainly holding out to her notice the one thing in the world she covets most.

"You're so cute when you're frustrated", he says to her, purposely flaunting the hot cup of coffee up to his lips, "but you're even cuter when you want what you can't have."

His eyes twinkle on this, a blue- gray flirtation in early morning that captures a secret delight in twin realms.

"Though, I'd like to think it has to do with the fact that I'm not in that bed, and not that I'm about to enjoy every last drop of this superb cup of Kona roast."

He was doing it on purpose, badgering her envy, and her unpredictable pregnancy nerves are insisting she find it contemptible that he's tempting her so.

So she reaches beside her, plucks up a pillow and throws it at him, but as she knew he would, he dodges the attack; the bundle of feathers hitting the dresser then falling to the floor.

After his_ 'oh shi-'_ of surprise, he stares at the fluffy decoration, and she knows he's trying to decide, for show, if the reaction was fair or uncalled for. Then, he looks back up at her while taking a long, over-dramatic sip of glorious caffeine.

Almost, almost she wants to cry from the injustice.

"And now I know why they're called throw pillows." he says, the curve of his mouth over the blue mug too damn smug for her liking.

Even more so, he'd agitated her with that remark, making her prenatal jitters betray themselves by finding the humor in his words.

"You're lucky I didn't have my gun." she says to him, with forced rancor, because dammit she'd have shot him then and there for just a taste of the aroma that tortures her nostrils.

"I'd blame the rage on your hormones if I didn't find it endearingly sexy." he responds, after swallowing the sweet nectar. "Careful, or I may hop in there to make another one of those."

In effect, he points to her belly, the swell of her abdomen tightening the normal sized nightshirt she's wearing to the point of constriction. And his focus has her hands finding the sides of her growing baby-bump.

"Speaking of which," he says now, the smirk at the corner of his mouth growing a little more dangerous, a little more exciting in the way that it does when a dark gray thrill persuades the way that he's eying her, "did I mention how incredibly appealing you look this morning?"

She tries not to react from this, tries not to feel the incitement of his desire that's swarmed itself, instantly, under her skin. So she shifts against the bustling heat, attempts to ignore the kind of downward fever pitch that got her in this condition in the first place.

Besides, there's no way he means it. Not when she feels like a beached whale, on dirty, un-kempt land. She hasn't showered in over fifteen hours, and god knows her hair is doing that tousled, wavy thing it does when she trades in her hairbrush for an upside down spoon and a whole pint of Ben and Jerry's.

"Don't do that," she tells him, more irritated now that, thanks to him and her rambunctious nerves,she can't stay in one emotion for too long, "Don't think that your going to make this okay by diverting my attention. I still hate you for bringing that in here."

She can't even look at the coffee cup, or him, for that matter, because she's too anxious from her unruly hormones to make sense of what she's supposed to be feeling.

At least this little bundle of theirs grounds her in some kind of maternal tranquility.

God knows that daddy has had the audacity lately, to piss her off completely.

Too bad he also has the power to make her forget her own disdain, like he's making her do now, after he's set down the taunting profusion, to dip the mattress with his weight.

"Now I know that's the rage talking. Try as you like, you know you can't stay mad at me." he says, as she averts her eyes, fixates on the way her round stomach is rising and falling with each frustrated breath, "Truth is, you love me too much to hate me."

He finishes, and she snorts at this, hating herself now too, because she knows, deep down, below her new ire-filled with-child traits, that he's right.

"Don't be so sure," she responds. "You're so cocky sometimes, I can't stand you."

And suddenly, she wishes she'd had a more dignified response to his conceited smirk.

"Clearly you don't have a problem with my cockiness." he says, and again, she sees his finger point to her tummy, and instantly, she understands why he'd over-annunciated the first syllable.

"Really, Peter?"

Is all she can say as her brows drop, in part astonishment, and in part, expecting nothing less.

And she'd be damned if he didn't smell deliciously like his side of the bed or the robust Arabica she can't have, and is sizzling all the static in the room with the way he's leaning into her. And his bare chest is offsetting his eyes a shade softer so it's doing nothing to defend her seemingly indifferent position either.

"Don't act like I'm not right." He says, that damn smirk reaching new heights, "Junior here wouldn't exist if you knew how to keep your hands off me."

Then he'd turned to her belly, that shit-eating-grin plastered all the hell over his beautiful face. "Don't let her fool you, mommy can't help herself."

"They're not on you now, are they?" she says in defense, desperate not to cave into the antics that make her forget, constantly, that she didn't know how to laugh before him.

And when he looks back up at her, her breath catches, a fast dip of gravity that sucks all the air out of the room with his dark blue seduction; a rapid change of his stare that obliterates her opposition by hot-wiring her blood-cells.

This is a different trigger button, and he knows how to push it so remarkably, so effortlessly, it's no wonder her body can't stay in one reaction for too long.

It's involuntary, a knee jerk-response. At least, this is what she tells herself, when her raging irritation doesn't want to admit how every perfect thing he is melts into her chest.

"I'm just gonna have to remedy that then." he says, his voice low, and already, she can taste his mouth, feels it devouring hers, and as he leans closer, as this game begins to make her feel fantastically dizzy, suddenly, that damn coffee cup appears between them.

And in the smug, self-satisfied way that only he can, he sips the hell of it, right under her nose.

It's when he lets out an over-dramatic '_mmm_' after he swallows, that her eyes narrow, and it's the same kind of contempt this all started with that creeps back under her skin.

"I'm glad you find this all funny," she tells him, her voice loud, annoyed, "because I don't find it amusing at all that I can't drink coffee like you can because I've been carrying your child for the past five months. And quite frankly the fact that you keep taunting it in my face is not only rude, but intentionally sordid and I'm two seconds away from telling you that you can take your Kona dark roast, and go fuck yourself."

As her pulse rings in her ears, as she feels her temper shallowing her breath, he's trying to hide his enjoyment by a thin press of his lips, and when he sets the cup down, carefully, quietly on her nightstand, his impending remark beats against the new tension.

And dammit, she feels a smile starting to break through her hard shell.

"I'd say you've done enough of that last part to me already."

And for some reason, this makes her finally break, crack out in laughter, as if somehow his prodding fingers finally managed to find the tickle spot between her ribs.

"Jesus, you just can't help yourself can you?" she says, after she finds air between breaths, and his brow creases in amused question.

"Haven't we already clarified here, that I'm not the only one?"

Resigned, she shakes her head on this, and when his hand finds her middle, she watches the way his thumb is caressing the delicate mound.

"This child is hopeless if she inherits your sense of humor."

She says, absently, her hand now mimicking his.

"Something has to balance out mommy's good looks."

He says, and she exhales the kind of breath that's required of her eye roll. Then she points to him.

"Now you're schmoozing."

The accusation came with a smile, but still, in defense, he throws his free hand in the air.

"And isn't it better then intentionally taunting you?" he states, then as if he's pondering something serious, his eyes drag to the side, weigh his expression down before he takes in his attire of only a dark pair of pajama pants; "Oh wait, I'm sitting here half naked. Never-mind."

And she wants to hit him over the head with another pillow, maybe three, but instead, she just lets out another defeated chuckle.

"Oh god..."

She drones out, and finally satisfied with how much he's agitated her this morning, his settled smile matches hers.

But damn him, for making her live on the air of his humor.

This is what they do, at seven a.m now.

This is how he reminds her that there's more things to ponder then today's threats and tomorrow's safety. This is how he makes her realize that at the end of the day, their Fringe-world little family can have normal, happy moments like all those smiling faces on the front cover of Parents and Baby magazine, the one on their coffee table that he makes fun of for its horrific layout of the modern day torture-devices masked as breast-pumps.

Not that he would know torture, cause he isn't the one who's back and boobs are constantly aching, or who's stomach doubles over at the smell of fried eggs, but none-the-less, making her laugh is how he knows to be here with her, for her, to help lessen somehow the unwanted side-effects of gestating a tiny person for thirty plus weeks.

Especially because the only thing that used to get her through the stress of her day, is now a nonstarter for the likes of her OB-GYN, the health of their baby and her onset acid reflux.

And maybe more disappointed then she should be, she sighs. And recognizing why, like he always can, he assures her.

"No more teasing you with coffee, I promise."

He says, and when she raises a brow over what she's sure must be a mock pout, it turns the corners of her mouth up.

"You promise, huh?"

"Scouts honor."

Happy that she's won, the hand on her stomach finds his, begins to play with his fingers, weaving them in and out of hers before she meets their palms.

"You'd better mean it," she tells him, sternly, playfully, "because next time, I'll have my gun."

And this makes his eyes sparkle again, a new blue now that thins in a silent, facetious deliberation.

"You gonna deliver the good news to the throw pillows, or should I?"

But before he can say one more clever, witty thing, she's tangled her hand in his hair and crushed her mouth to his.

And against her lips, he smiles.

This is how he always intends for her to finally, give into him.

And for right now, and the next four months, the fact that she loves him in all his irritatingly, magnificent smart-ass ways, will have to satiate her hormones.

If she can't indulge in her caffeine addiction, this one's just going to have to do.

And she'd be lying if she said the taste of this one wasn't significantly better. In all the right ways, it's one-hundred and ten times warmer, and eight million times sweeter.

And that she can taste the Kona roast left on his lips, well, that's one a hell of a plus, too.


End file.
